


Red Marlboro

by orphan_account



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Depression, Gen, In a way, Self-Harm, Smoking, but not really, dan has a lot of issues, egobang if you squint, i guess?, rated for language, this is just fucking sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 06:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8567068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He walked out with a packet of red Marlboros in his pocket. He felt like he hit rock bottom the moment he put the crumpled twenty on the counter.Rock bottom was nowhere near yet.--Dan has some stuff going on in his head he isn't equipped to deal with.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some warning for dark thoughts, sometimes suicidal/about death.

 It all had started a little over a year ago. His life became terrible, in a way; his dormant depression slowly awakened after being silenced by constant work for so long. But once the hard work was done, he didn’t have anything to do.He felt like he didn’t have purpose anymore. He reached a peak in his life, and it was just a downward spiral from then on. He didn’t tell anyone, even though the rational part of his brain told him to say something, anything. His brain was louder.

_They wouldn’t care. You can handle this on your own. You shouldn’t worry them with your petty bullshit._

So he didn’t. He tried to deal with it the way he always did. Hiding the problem at all costs, not letting anyone know about it.

It got worse.

Six months into denial and far too convincing general happiness, he was on his way out of the convenience store, when he spotted the small tobacco shop near the entrance.

He was fully aware why he shouldn’t. He was making a living off of his voice, and he had been clean for fifteen years. It would ruin him. His teeth. His skin. His entire body in one fell swoop.  But he remembered how nice it felt to have a moment to himself, when it was just him, a cigarette, a lighter, and ten minutes of silence in his brain. How much the robotic procedure calmed him down. Drag. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

He walked out with a packet of red Marlboros in his pocket. He felt like he hit rock bottom the moment he put the crumpled twenty on the counter.

Rock bottom was nowhere near yet.

It came a few months later.

For a few weeks, it was gorgeous. The first few times, he coughed like a little bitch in the alley halfway between the office and his house. He couldn’t let anyone else know.

_It would just make you a burden._

So he just washed his hair every day, and did a fuckton of laundry. He never smoked at home, not even in the backyard. He couldn’t risk it, even when living alone.

The happiness of his newfound extracurricular slowly drifted away after he first time felt that pang in his stomach during a grump session. He fell back so easily, he didn't even realise he was addicted again until then.

He knew he couldn’t bail on the recording, it was his job for fuck’s sake. Arin would definitely be able to smell it on him, too, if he just snuck out, so he just sighed. That was as much as he could do at that moment. He inevitably got annoyed and snappy by the end.

Arin looked at him weirdly, but didn’t bring it up.

_He probably hates you now._

After making his routine detour to the small alley, he called Arin, apologising for his behaviour, blamed it on the stress. He hated how good he was getting at lying. He didn’t even blink.

 

He was watching some comedy show, when it all got really bad. He laughed so hard it sent him into a coughing fit, and it ended with him hunched over his own knees, clutching at his own shirt, terrified.

_You will die. You are killing yourself, and it’s all your fault. It feels good when you are just doing it, but you will die. You won’t be able to sing anymore. You might as well be already dead._

Fuck the rules.

He stood up, and got immediately dizzy - another thing that was happening way too often.

He grabbed the red box, and went out to the back porch, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands.

His brain was screaming again, alternating between how he couldn’t get over this ever, because he was addicted, and how he deserved losing everything because of his own stupidity.

He couldn’t bring himself to harm his body in a visible way. People would think that he was pathetic. This was a better way of self harm. Fairly invisible, maybe someone would eventually smell it, but he was working hard not to let anyone get even suspicious. The only thing that could give him away was his phone, the smoke has long since clung to the light blue plastic case, but he doubted anyone would ever smell it.

Fuck everything.

He lit another one.

His feet were cold, but he didn’t care anymore. He slid down with his back on the wall, and relished in the way it  almost hurt.

He needed out of this situation.

He wasn’t sure he could do it anymore.

 

Three months after the first coughing fit, Arin asked him why he was coughing more and more often.

He brushed it off with some weak excuse, a cold, maybe.

Arin remained suspicious.

_He’s gonna fire you on the spot if he finds out. You’ll be nothing, but it’s fine, because you deserve nothing._

He wanted to bitch slap his depression, punch his anxiety in the face, and strangle each of these thoughts with a fucking barbed wire.

They were the reason he started.

And the reason he wanted to quit.

And the reason he couldn’t.

He wished his brain could just make up its mind about what the fuck it wanted.

 

Everything went to total shit, when he actually got a cold, five months in.

As old habits die hard, even if they are from fifteen years ago, he was a full fledged smoker again. His daily dose was fluctuating, depending on what he was doing at the time. Sometimes eight, sometimes fifteen. Sometimes an entire box. He never counted. It didn’t matter.

He also got lazy. He just went out to the backyard. Got himself a nice glass peanut butter jar. Kept it next to the porch door.

Who cared.

Nobody ever visited him anymore.

Except that one time, when he had a cold, and should have been in bed with some tea and his laptop.

He wasn’t doing any of those. He was outside, leaning on the wall, in his bathrobe, a half smoked cigarette hanging from his lips. It wasn’t even fun anymore, it didn’t help one bit.

His brain started running circles again.

The circles were interrupted by a set of keys hitting his door, as someone was unlocking it. Someone. Well, Arin. He was entrusted with the spare keys.

Did it matter? He’d find out eventually anyway. But he would definitely fire him in a second. Did that matter?

_No, he has already decided.They don’t need you anyway. You always were just a replacement. It’s actually a good thing, you are making it easier for him. He won’t have to lie about being your friend anymore. You are just an annoying old idiot, who can’t even handle his own brain._

Dan crouched, hiding his face between his knees.

This was bad.

Very very very bad.

This was rock bottom, probably.

_Look at yourself, you’re pathetic. You can’t even own up to your mistakes. You’re just a failure, who doesn’t deserve better than the slow and painful death you’re causing yourself. This is what you are. As useless as your disgusting black lungs._

 He didn’t have anything else but his cigarettes, and his loud brain.

 Arin finally managed to open the door.  He probably wouldn’t have his friends anymore after Arin saw what he was doing.

_You are a pathetic piece of shit._

 He sure looked like one. Crouched on the back porch, next to the wall, hyperventilating, but wheezing with every breath. Tears welling in his wide open eyes, staring into nothingness.

 He heard Arin yell something about bringing him soup before heading to the office, but most of it was drowned out by his thoughts.

 God, it was so loud.

_See, he doesn’t even want to find you. He’s only here because he feels obligated to do so. It’s a chore. You aren’t his friend. You have no friends. You are all alone, a dying, whimpering mess. Nobody cares. Alone. Nobody. Alone. Nobody._

He wanted to scream. He didn’t know whether he actually did or just wanted to. To stop his brain from saying the things he somewhere knew weren’t true, but it was so loud. His throat felt too tight. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes stung more than ever.

 Then it stopped.

 He woke up in his bed, probably hours later. The sun was high in the sky, too bright and cheery for what he felt inside.

_You should have died. On the porch. With the cigarette in your mouth, that would have been perfect. He wouldn’t need to pretend to care. It would be best. For everyone. Including you. Because you are just a burden. A waste of oxygen._

 This time, he was fairly sure he actually screamed. Words? Maybe words.

 He kind of heard someone rushing in,all heavy, hurried steps, but he couldn’t make out what he said.

 He felt thick, strong arms, pulling him up, hugging him tightly, gently rocking him. He clung onto the arms, his nails probably breaking skin here and there, but he didn’t seem to realise. He heard gentle words, he was almost surprised. The words were quiet, but they seemed to drown out his thoughts. He recognised them as Arin’s words, deep, calming voice, telling him to breathe. In, out. Easy as pie.

 So he did.

 He tried to match the rhythm of Arin’s words.

**In. Out.**

 A few minutes later, his vision cleared.

 He still heard the gentle words, felt Arin’s voice rumbling in his broad chest, felt it on his own skin, the sound still mostly silencing his brain. He paid attention now to what Arin was murmuring into his ear.

 

**You are important, and we’ll get through this together, I’ll help you, hell, we’ll all help you, because we need you, and you are important to all of us, and you don’t have to be alone with this, you deserve help, you deserve to be alive, and we’ll struggle with you, because you are worth it so much.**

 

 It was a constant stream of words, sometimes not making any sense, repeating, looping around on itself, but at least it kept Dan’s head quiet. It meant the world to him.

 After what seemed like hours of listening to Arin, Dan heard that he was getting hoarse, and the hand on his back was getting slower. He was afraid that his brain would be loud again if he told Arin to stop. He didn’t care. He cared about Arin more now.

 He hummed to get Arin’s attention, and when the heavy head left his shoulder to look at Dan, he felt a pang of guilt in his chest. He looked like shit. Worried shit with dried tears over his face.

 They definitely had to talk at some point after this, but for now, Dan settled for squeezing him, and quietly whispering “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> guess who else has problems they arent equipped to deal with


End file.
